


The ghosts of Whitehall Palace

by FeatheredShadow



Category: The Tudors (TV)
Genre: Drama, Gen, Ghosts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 16:11:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6914149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatheredShadow/pseuds/FeatheredShadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are ghosts in Whitehall Palace, Charles Brandon knows it all too well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The ghosts of Whitehall Palace

“I want to see my daughter.”

Anne Boleyn is here, standing proud in her red dress – the dress of the Marquess of Pembroke. Haughty, as she usually is when _he_ is in the vicinity.

“I want to see my daughter,” she insists, and Charles sighs, his goblet of wine heavy in his hand, keeping her in his line of sight but not fully turned towards her.

“You know it is not possible,” he finally answers, weary.

She scoffs, looking at him in disdain, before leaving.

The room is colder afterwards.

ooOoo

“My daughter. I want to see her.”

She is persistent – always has been. The chapel had been packed in the morning, for Easter’s sermon, but now, he is alone in it, an old rosary in his hands.

“She is well cared for by the Lady Mary,” he finally answers, eyes fixed on the wood pearls in his hands.

It had been a gift from _his_ Mary, a long time ago – almost a lifetime. Before she had left for France and its old, aging King, when he was still young and full of hope. The wood had darkened in all those years, but it had become softer to the touch. Oh, how he missed her – more than he let it on. The beautiful, full of life princess she had been was slowly fading away from memories, and the court has long since stop mentioning her. Only Henry…

“My daughter,” the Marquess insists, and he finally looks up to her.

Still wearing that red dress.

“The Lady Mary is taking care of her,” he repeats, and she finally disappears.

The chapel is full of shadows now. The boys from the choir will soon come to lighten the candles and he will have to leave, join the court life again.

It is bleaker these days, now that they are in between queens, but it won’t last eternally. Queen Jane will be dearly remembered as long as the King wishes so, but a new queen is needed.

Again.

ooOoo

Whitehall Palace is full of ghosts but he is the only one they reach out to.

ooOoo

“You knew he would tire of her too.”

Charles stills, uneasy, before slowly turning towards the silhouette. Katherine of Aragon is standing next to the fireplace, her back facing him. She still looks every inch the queen she was before leaving the place.

“I had supposed so, yes,” he answers frankly, wondering why _she_ is here.

She doesn’t visit often.

“You knew he would,” she repeats before turning towards him.

Her face is stern. He winces a little, rises, and his goblet of wine falls on the carpet. In the evening light, blood is seeping on the floor. Cromwell’s blood.

“And still _you_ are in favor.”

He stays silent. She shakes her head.

“My, master Brandon, you know the risks. You know the King.”

There is sadness on her face, suddenly.

“Look after my daughter, will you? She is so alone now.”

“You know I try,” he says, a lump in his throat, but she is already gone.

ooOoo

“Cromwell was better at running the kingdom than this council.”

Cardinal Wolsey is always so matter-of-facts, but the cold air surrounding him doesn’t lie. They are never happy, when they come.

“He thought himself to be a king in the shadows,” Charles mumbles, the ale long gone to his head. Catherine has left three days ago and hasn’t come back yet. Probably won’t.

“Because you never thought so of yourself?” Still smiling, the Cardinal. And no trace of blood on his throat either.

He shrugs, tries to reach the wine, fills his goblet again.

“There is only one King in the realm and no one can hope to influence him.”

The wine is heavy on his tongue.

“Fools, all of them,” he mumbles and the Cardinal is gone.

ooOoo

“Not such a fool anymore Charles, aren’t you?”

Mary is here, taunting him, but there is still kindness in her eyes. She is as lively as the day of their marriage – the first one, the secret one, with only a dozen attendants, and King Francis laughing at them. _“Le bel amour!”_ he had said, smiling. He smiled a lot in these days.

“I thought he would have been happy with her,” he admits, and gulps down his wine.

Everyone thought so. The court is in mourning, and Henry is truly devastated. An infant son and no queen…

Mary shakes her head, still smiling.

“There will be more to come,” she says, and he tries to reach to her, hold her hand, touch her, but she is already gone.

Catherine is talking to their son in the other room.

He is alone.

ooOoo

Thomas More never says anything when he comes. Stares at him, silent, and then slowly disappearing.

ooOoo

“My daughter.”

Anne Boleyn.

“My daughter.”

Katherine of Aragon.

He watches over the princesses – the bastards – his _nieces_. They take care of each other, and the new Queen has taken a liking to little Elizabeth.

They are cousins after all.

ooOoo

“I did not see,” Thomas Cromwell admits the first time he appears, still shaken, blood on his clothes. He too will soon learn how to change his appearance – the finale one.

“I did not see when I was alive, but I do now.” He laughs – not kind, but not cruel either. “It wasn’t power you wanted, Your Grace. Or influence. It is the _friendship_ of the King.”

He tilts his head slightly. The blood blurs. Charles sits, goblet of wine forgotten in his hand. Fatigue washes over him.

“You couldn’t have understood,” he finally offers after a long time, and Cromwell keeps looking at him.

Those piercing eyes.

“You weren’t at court, before,” Charles adds, and Cromwell nods once before leaving.

There is a party at court and Catherine is living elsewhere.

He is alone now.

ooOoo

Katherine Howard never comes to visit him, but he still has a word for her in his prayers, fingers rolling over the hardened, softened pearls of wood. He sleeps with his rosary now, not that anyone would know.

Little Lady Elizabeth looks sad, despite Lady Mary’s best efforts. May 1542 rolls around, with a ball thrown at the end – in remembrance of the King’s marriage with Jane Seymour.

Edward Seymour looks weary on the 19th.

ooOoo

“He is going to kill you too,” Anne Boleyn tells him one day, always wearing red.

Blood red.

“You think he won’t, you think you’re safe now, but he will. One day or another.”

She doesn’t even look satisfied.

“Then I shall die too,” he answers, tired, feeling the cold in his bones, and she huffs before leaving.

The Lady Mary is being courted by a certain faction of the court.

ooOoo

“Will you go against my brother?” Jane Seymour enquires, curious, and he almost drops his goblet in the fire.

She is wearing that pale blue dress she once wore, when he brought a letter from the King – a letter and a purse of gold. Oh, how satisfied Henry had been at the answer this day… so long ago…

“Will you plot against him too?”

The air is warm, still.

“I have no reason to go against Edward Seymour, my Lady,” he finally answers, truthfully, and she nods, her face serene.

“You are tiring of the life at court, Your Grace,” she whispers as if it were a secret, and he has no answer to that, not when factions are growing stronger every day, and his nieces are already slowly drifting apart, and he is seen as a remain of the old times.

ooOoo

“Your time is coming,” Katherine of Aragon warns him once, and she still looks so regal.

He remembers the Princess of Wales and the Queen of England, and the seven years in between.

His youth is so far away.

He wants to see Mary again.

ooOoo

“It was you,” Anne Boleyn accuses him. “It was you all along. _You_ were the one he would forgive the most to.”

He is coughing in bed, cold sweat all over his body.

ooOoo

“Seymour learned something from us all,” Cardinal Wolsey approves, not unkindly, and Mary is running past him, her smile gone for a moment.

“Oh, Charles. _Charles_. My sweet Charles. Come to me. Come to me again.”

ooOoo

“Your time has come now,” Cromwell tells him, and he has gained some serenity, wearing the Privy Seal again. “Our time is long gone.”

“My nieces,” Charles mumbles, and the fireplace is slowly dying.

“Their time will come too. Don’t fight it any longer, Your Grace. Your place isn’t here anymore.”

ooOoo

There are ghosts in Whitehall Palace.


End file.
